“You will guard the passage?”
“Yes.”
“Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s!”
As he concluded the conversation with the hiss, The Cobra pulled the plug from the hole. He then moved the plug along the line above and pressed it into a hole numbered eight. There was a short pause; then a voice:
“Fang Eight.”
“Ss-s-s-s-s-s! You are ready?”
“Yes.”
“Wait fifteen minutes. Proceed if I do not call again. Ss-s-s-s-s!”
The Cobra moved the plug to another hole. This time a voice reported as Fang Four. The speaker received the same instructions as Fang Eight. Again, The Cobra plugged and gave the identical word to Fang Eighteen; his final action was a telephone call to Fang Nine.
Fangs of The Cobra! These were agents reached in some mysterious fashion through the telephone connection of The Cobra’s plug-box. In touch with workers in the underworld, The Cobra was utilizing a system which neither The Shadow nor the police had recognized.
Tonight, The Cobra was on the move. From his lair, this new power in the underworld was planning another stroke. His men had been posted; the statement from Fang Eleven had caused The Cobra to order action by the others who were waiting.
The Cobra remained in his chair. He opened the bottom of the plug-box and drew forth an instrument. It was the dial of a telephone, connected by wires to the plug-box.
A brown-coated finger turned the dial. The sound of a busy signal came from the plug-box. The Cobra pressed a switch. The clicking ended.
This dial represented a portion of regular telephone equipment. By using it, The Cobra was connecting his own apparatus with the regular telephone line. The person whom The Cobra had sought to call was evidently busy on the wire.
AFTER a short wait, The Cobra again dialed the number. This time the connection formed. The sound of ringing came from the plug box. Then a click; a brisk voice came from the cabinet.
“Police Commissioner Weston speaking.”
“Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s!”
The Cobra’s prolonged hiss brought a startled gasp over the wire. There was a pause. Then, in a low voice, The Cobra spoke:
“I am The Cobra. Tonight I shall strike!”
Another pause; then came the commissioner’s voice in an easy questioning tone:
“Good. Where is your objective?”
“Follow instructions,” hissed The Cobra, “and you shall be there. One false step — your chance shall end. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Weston’s voice sounded agreeable. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Forty-seventh Street west of Seventh Avenue,” hissed The Cobra. “Nine-thirty o’clock. Enter the gray sedan that you will find waiting there. Bring one companion. That is all. Ss-s-s-s-s!”
The Cobra pressed the switch. The call was ended. The brown-clad figure arose. The snakelike hiss sounded in gloating fashion as The Cobra stalked across his den.
He opened the door on the opposite side of the room. A large closet was revealed; hanging from hooks were various garments, among them two other costumes that were identical with the one which The Cobra wore.
Pushing these aside, The Cobra reached to a shelf and obtained two articles: one a large revolver, the other a small flashlight, which The Cobra tested to make sure it was in working order.
The Cobra left the closet and closed the door. He went back to the switchboard and inserted a plug. A voice was prompt in its response:
“Fang Two.”
“Ready!” warned The Cobra. “I shall want the coupe in fifteen minutes. At spot three.”
“I am ready.”
“Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s!”
The Cobra removed the plug. He strode to the door at the steps. The door closed behind him as he ascended from the lair. Clicking footsteps came muffled from the stone stairs. The light in the lair went out.
LIKE The Shadow, The Cobra was moving to strike crime. Bold in the past, he had evidenced a new disregard of hazard. The Cobra had extended an invitation to the police commissioner to witness the stroke that would be dealt tonight!
With the aid of those workers whom he had termed his fangs, The Cobra had prepared for this event. More than before, his power was to be known in the underworld.
This night was destined to produce a new and startling chapter in the strange rivalry that had arisen between two fighters of crime in New York: The Cobra and The Shadow.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TRAIL
“AT nine-thirty, Cardona.”
Detective Joe Cardona nodded as heard the police commissioner’s statement. Cardona was seated in the little office of Weston’s apartment. He had just heard the commissioner’s account of the call from The Cobra.
“It was eight-thirty when the call came in,” continued Weston. “Just after I had hung up from my talk with you. I knew that you were on the way here, so I didn’t call back to headquarters. Instead, I telephoned to Caleb Myland.”
“What did he have to say, commissioner?” questioned Cardona.
“He was not at home,” declared Weston. “Out of town, his servant said. I wanted to get Myland’s advice. However, I feel sure that he would recommend the course that I intend to follow.”
“To keep this appointment with The Cobra?”
“Exactly. Taking one man along with me. You, Cardona, are the man that I have chosen.”
“You’re running a risk, commissioner,” declared Cardona, gravely. “This looks like a phony game to me. Let me take a squad out on this job.”
“And ruin it?” The commissioner laughed. “No, Cardona, that would be futile. I have made arrangements for our protection. I called Inspector Klein at headquarters, just before you arrived. He is sending men to act as our reserve.”
“You mean they’ll follow us?”
“Yes. I am in charge tonight, Cardona. I have made my plans. Come. We are going to Forty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue.”
As the two men rode in the commissioner’s car, Weston recalled a question which he had intended to ask Cardona. He put it eagerly, realizing that it might have a bearing on tonight’s expedition.
“You have seen Gorgan?”
“Yes, commissioner. About an hour before I called you. He hasn’t learned anything new as yet. They’re still talking of The Cobra — but it’s all been rumor.”
“This is no rumor, Cardona.” Weston spoke with assurance. “That voice over the wire tonight was the same one that spoke to me the evening that Deek Hundell was slain by The Cobra. Ah — here we are. Come on; we’ll look for the gray sedan.”
WESTON and Cardona alighted near the spot appointed by The Cobra. There was no sign of the gray sedan. Cardona noted two men standing a short distance from the curb. One was Detective Sergeant Markham; the other, Detective Logan, both from headquarters. They had evidently been dispatched here by Inspector Klein.
It was exactly half past nine, by the big clock on the Paramount Building. Cardona turned to the commissioner.
“We’ll learn quick enough,” began the detective. “If this is a stall—”
Weston stopped Cardona with a wave of his hand. Joe turned in the direction of the commissioner’s gaze. A gray sedan had pulled up by the curb. Weston stepped forward and accosted the driver; at the same time, he made a beckoning motion which brought Markham and Logan from their spot of obscurity.
“You’re waiting for me?” questioned Weston.
“Came here to get two passengers,” returned the driver. “I guess you’re the ones who are waiting.”
“Who sent you?”
“New Era Garage, over on Tenth Avenue. Fellow came in there tonight and hired this car.”
“Do you work for the garage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where have you been instructed to take us?”